Who Let the Dog Out
by theAsh0
Summary: "This might hurt a bit, but… relax; forget everything you know and simply start anew. After all, Lord knows, it has to end better than the last time 'round." (rated for violence, swearing and mind-fffing,)
1. Chapter 0

Title: Who Let the Dog Out?

Special thanks& Credits:

Special thanks to my beta's Jeanniebird and imsuchanut whose close collaboration made this fiction possible.

**0000~R~0000**

They never had gotten off to a good start. No, it was actually safe to say Rogue harboured a certain hate for the creature she had been partnered with. A partnership hatched in the name of this new X-men and government collaboration. A great step for mutants everywhere toward peaceful coexistence, and Rogue truly was glad. No; more than that. She would have thought she would do anything to make this dream come true.

But by now… Hell, if it wasn't for the fact that Professor Xavier had cast this as her one great chance to have that life-long dream for peace come true, Rogue would have vetoed this whole project after their initial 'test'.

And - be honest - what mutant in his right mind would consider a partnership with the old Weapons program at all? A program that until recently had been at the forefront of mutant persecution? Rogue had been little more than a little girl when the media exposed the program. She had not even been aware of her mutant genes, but even with the government playing it off low-key she had felt a little of the horrors in tow. No; Rogue had no love for these people. And she certainly would not have agreed to become one half of one of their anti-terrorist strike team. Still, even excusing all this, had anyone else but Xavier asked, Rogue would never have agreed with the other half of her strike-team: the Weapon's program most prized and coveted mass-murdering mutant wolf: Weapon-X.

Why did she dislike this creature so?

Maybe it was because their first meeting consisted of Rogue having to get voluntarily stabbed -an ordeal she could describe only as a less than pleasant experience. She had had to walk up to a man-sized black crate that hissed and bounced, and hold her arm still over the single hole in that crate. While fully aware of the fact of what was to come.

Yes; perhaps Rogue's dislike for Weapon-X was born then. For the when the creature had stabbed her, she had indeed been healed by its mutant powers. But a nasty something else took a hold of her too; likely the psyche of this beast. Rogue had no experience with her mutant power on animals; no previous encounter to compare this with. Weapon-X's invasion of Rogue's had been unnervingly close to a human's though, only differentiating in providing s more violent imagery, interspersed with sullen silences. Oh; and let's not forget the sensory overload. Sounds and smells and too-bright a colors vying for her attention every waking moment. Not that the nights were that much better. Despite the shortage in vocabulary, the part of Weapon-X in Rogue had left her with confusing dreams and a nasty temper for weeks.

But Rogue's stab-wound had closed instantly thanks to the creature's healing power. And thus, despite the young X-woman's misgivings, the experiment had been deemed a success.

Of course, there was more. It was possible Rogue's dislike had sprung from their second meeting, when the thing's caretakers had introduced her canine partner as the greatest piece of weapon-engineering since the A-bomb.

But Rogue liked to believe she was not a person set on prejudice, and so she hoped that her hatred stemmed from their first actual work together. When they'd let the creature off its leash, and it had loped off right into a throng of people, and started cutting into mutant terrorists with an air of total glee.

She was not at all sure how none of the hostages involved had gotten killed in that exchange. The caretakers had gone on about something called designated civilians and programming that was supposed to keep Weapon-X in line. But personally she was not sure how it could have told the difference with all the blood and screaming and total panic. She supposed any civilian in such a situation would likely runoff screaming, so maybe Weapon-X's strategy just meant 'stir up the beehive and see what fights back.' Still, it didn't sound like a solid and safe strategy to her.

Rogue had asked the Weapons's employees to keep the beast in line better next time, lest there would be any more unnecessary deaths. They had said they would try. A caretaker called Jake had made an effort, whispering into the creature's ear for at least fifteen minutes before releasing it. And honestly, it had seemed calm and collected. Perhaps even understanding when Jake had repeated, again and again, that safety of the hostages was prime objective.

But when Jake cut it lose the creature turned, sprinted, and buried its claws in human flesh without a backward glance.

Jake had only shrugged, no more than a little apologetic. "It does that. But we're working on it."

Which was nice and all to know, but didn't help any of the people who had owned the literal mine-field of body-parts Rogue needed to traverse to join up with the beast again. Had these people even been with the terrorists? It was impossible to tell; most of these bodies mauled beyond recognition. But Rogue doubted Weapon-X had the faculties to understand a concept like covering itself against law-suits. It probably just enjoyed the mindless slaughter.

Why ever the weapon had done it, his antics had now again left her with quite a few traumatized civilians that needed to be coaxed out of hiding places amongst the rubble. Rogue sighed, then stretched out a gloved hand to the young woman that had crawled under a slab of broken concrete in the hope of escaping the massacre. This terrorist hide-out had hardly been in good condition before Weapon-X had come slashing though men and structure alike, but now there was little left of either.

The hiding woman was understandably convinced she would be next to join indistinct heaps of ruin, and was this far not reacting to Rogue's words of encouragement. Instead, her eyes were fixed on a point behind the young X-man, terror drawing her irises black. A rhythmic squirting noise came from the scene the woman could not draw away from, and Rogue knew she would have to address that macabre sight now. If she did not, she might well be stuck here till night-fall.

Her canine partner sat on his haunches, the dark fur that covered him wet with blood. Weapon-X had one of the terrorists in one claw, keeping what the upper body propped up: a head lolling in a disquieting manner, stuck to a pair of legs by little more than skin by now. Weapon-X had one metal claw unsheathed, and every second beat it drove those two-foot knives into the corpse with precise, almost robotic punches.

"Hey, doggie!" Rogue addressed the thing, because the care-takers had assured her it had been augmented enough to understand simple speech. "The order was use deadly force when _necessary. _Not mangle and debase every kill you make."

Weapon-X turned its hairy head towards her, cocking it to the side. But his clawed fist kept up its rhythmic punching; long metal claws burying into flesh time and time again.

"Do you really think your commander will be glad when he finds out he has to have blood scraped off every wall?"

Weapon-X finally did stop his meat-cutting, as if actually processing that. Then, his teeth barred in an animal's equivalent of a grin as he grabbed the corpse's head and bobbed it up and down in a parody of a happy nod.

Disgusted, Rogue turned away from the spectacle that was Weapon-X: her new partner!

"Sick animal."

**0000~W~0000**

Hello. Can ya guess who I am? That's right. I am the Big Bad Wolf. Call me Weapon-X, or if ya have to be familiar, Wolverine. I am the boogie-man from your dreams, the monster under your bed. With Claws. And once I come for ya, you won't have to worry about nightmares ever again.

I know what I am; I've known for as long as I can remember. This is my second life, I'm aware. But in that life before...Well, I expect I knew back then too.

I suppose you think I'm being melodramatic? Or at least - due to the fact that I am covered, again, in the blood of my enemies - homicidal. But I am a creature born of pain, death, and despair. As such I think I am allowed this small transgression.

My birth?

The weird thing about pain - true, honest, pure pain-, is that it is all-encompassing. It was all I had room for; so much so that I was not even a concept I could understand. There simply was no such thing as an _I_. Nor a _here_, not _there_. No sounds nor sights nor smells, nor the absence of them. I didn't even have a concept of time then. I only knew that there was pain, and it was lessening. That pain was confined now, pulsing inside my bones, and as terrible as it was, at least it no longer filled my every sense.

Now, you might think this lessening of pain would've been a good thing. Yet for me, at the time, it was not. It gave me consciousness to do something else but suffer: I panicked.

There was actually enough to panic over. I was submerged in liquid, inside a constricted, closed-off tank that did not even grant me the space to raise my arms. There were hoses stuck into me everywhere—though the one that abhorred me most was the one running down my throat. Oh, did I mention that at this point something snaked down inside the flesh of my arms, and then finally popped through my knuckles' flesh in the form of two-times-three sets of knives?

Yeah; panic might have been too light a word.

Needless to say a glass tank provided no obstacle to an enraged beast wielding six two-foot blades. Neither did the scientists and doctors that had been standing over my liquid-filled coffin. Or mother's womb; they were both the same thing for me, it turned out. For I might have been born there, someone else came there to die.

Now, I had just about finished the last of the squashies—those men and women so engrossed in the subjects of their learning they had never bothered to even try and learn basic self-defense - when all the monitors around me blared to life. It was Stryker. My Commander. Or boss. Or Lord and Saviour. Whatever he likes, actually; though I guess at the time I didn't know it.

Started cussing me out; warned me he'd have my head if I broke our deal now. Didn't know what he was talking about o' course, so I started tearing into the damn television tubes. There were a lot of them though, and the image upon them changed soon.

The guy that looked out from all those screens now – from an obvious recording – is the guy that _actually_ fucked me over. He explained as much in a halting, over-conscious way; had the gall to _apologize_ for it. I'd have liked to rip that bastard's face off, as I had done with those scientists. But that particular face staring at me now was the only one that meant anything to me at that point. It was the face I had seen reflect back at me first, when I woke up in that claustrophobic tank. The face was my own.

Yes; it was right there that I knew despair.

Don't you dare feel sorry for me! Not yet, at least. It wasn't _all_ that bad, really. Even if that tape has been played back to me too many times for me to forget - And that's saying something as my first years at the Weapons program are little more than a hole-riddled blur. Still, life was simple back then. I got orders, and I obeyed them. Those orders usually contained some excuse for me to sink my claws into living meat, and at the time that was all I had room to care about.

No, my story is actually 'bout to get a lot worse.

Mother-fucking Green-Peace showed up. Can you believe it? Green-Peace. They've pretty much infiltrated the whole Weapons program. Merged with some Mutant's rights group to do it too.

Whatever.

They started freeing mutants that were obviously human. All sorts of legislators showed up, quoting from all sorts of human rights bills. Pretty much cleared the whole base o' anything that could talk. Suppose I should consider myself lucky I didn't do much o' that at the time. Later animal welfare showed up as well, took a lot of the tamer lab-animals with 'm.

They took me too, at one point. Put me in a fenced piece a forest, kept me fed well enough and stayed out of my way. First few weeks of coherent stuff I remember. I wouldn't have minded staying there, even with the place boring and short on excuses for slaughter.

Until I got sick.

Fur started shedding, got these nasty muscle cramps. Fever and the shakes and I couldn't even keep my dinner down. Not that I was hungry anymore. Green-Peace mother-fuckers tried to set their vets on me. But I wasn't feeling much cooperative, and it's near impossible to tranc me, so they gave up eventually. In the end, they decided to take me back home.

Wasn't even sure how I felt about that, at the time. Confused, mostly. Never got sick before. With how my body works, I'd have thought it impossible. Whatever the doctors gave me on home-coming cleared my system fast enough though. So I guess I wasn't really sick. Or, maybe it's the kind of disease that gets treated, but not cured. Because I get my weekly shots now - against adamantium poisoning, apparently.

Stryker came ta my cell, shortly after. Explained a little more o' why I gone and agree with his terms so readily the first time. Can't help but shake the feeling he's fucking me over—somewhere. But that could just be wishful thinking, because it all adds up too well with the story the previous - less-hairy - me hinted at in that tape. Apparently, I got a double murder charge hanging over me; court-martial an' everything, death-penalty just about assured. Guess that's why I've promised these creeps fifty years o' my life. By the time I get outta here, no one will be looking for the old me.

I also look different enough. Then again, I might have to fix that, if I ever want to return to society. I look more like a bloody Australian Shepherd then a human being. Fuck, did I used to shave _every hour_ or something?

Either way, the guy lined up for death row will not be connected to me in any manner by the time I get outta here. _If_ I ever get outta here. I'm not stupid. I know I can't trust Stryker; hell, he's with the government!

Still, rather fight the devil I know then the devil unknown I guess. Not that I'd be much looking forward to the attempted executions awaiting me if the cops ever do get me. Lethal injections are a bitch. Don't ask me how I know that, because I don't. Stryker came up with the too vivid telling o' what would happen to me. The story woulda given me nightmares, if it wasn't for… well, that's a tale for another day I'd say.

Anyway, I had to make another deal then. Hide that I could talk; pretend to be an animal. It wasn't that hard, really.

Not at first.

But it's getting harder.

Apparently, Green-Peace and those o' a same mind have quite a different idea on what an animal is then good Commander Stryker. And how they should be treated. Do you get what I am saying? No? Think _Royal fucking Canine Schnauzer_. Crazies turned my bloody pen into some kinda inside garden. With trees and everything. Got me a cave with a mattress, a little pool wi' fresh water, and a tape playing bird noises in the background for ambiance. I'm now living in the wolf-equivalent of a five-star hotel.

I told ya it was awful.

It's easy to snarl and posture at guys wielding electric rods at you. It's quite a different thing when they're offering you stake and a walk in the park. I can't actually attack my handlers... They did something to me there. But it used to be those bastards for hire didn't care, or din' really believe all that conditioning worked for sure. These new guys… I bet they'd put their head in the mouth of a life-orca if its care-taker said it was okay. And they keep telling each other it's all fine and dandy. The lot o' them are driving me mental.

It's disheartening, really. No matter how bad o' a blood-bath I leave on my missions, I just can get 'm to be scared o' me!

And now, bloody government seems to be agreeing with those numb-skulls. Put me on a program. Working with _other mutants. N_ot the type on a leash though. Not the type to go tearing through opponents either. And they put the other mutant in charge. Her, a freaking _girl._ Can you believe that?

Well, I guess that's a good thing, or I'd have _proof_ they already knew I'm a fraud. I'm supposed to be an over-grown mutt after all. All the same, the bitch ain't nothing but trouble; talks to me like a regular human being half the time, messes up my kill-ratio with useless non-violence commands the other. I don't think she likes me either. Bet she'd be happy to rat on me if I give her even one reason to suspect. And that's only a matter of time, with the way she's been observing me and getting way too close an personal all o' the time.

This is completely fucking up my cover. Any more o' this, and I might as well walk up the police and give myself up. Anyway, how many lethal injections would they give a guy, before they realize it ain't working..?

Ah shucks, just don't have the guts to find out.

I need to fuck this up; be that Big Bad Wolf. Do something so nasty this entire program gets cancelled. I can't hold my cover like this. Not to mention, Stryker don't like this much at all. So I have to end it.

I should go and get the girl killed, or something. Her own fault, I say. A kid showing up on a battle-field, virtually unprepared and untrained. This shit would have gotten her killed soon enough anyway. I mean, what are her superiors thinking? Might be doing her a favour, if I make it quick. Fuck it.

Killing her would do it. – and don't go thinking I wouldn't, just cause she'd a kid. It 'course she's got special Handler Status; that means take her orders, an no hurting. Worse than bloody Civilian Status. At least I can ignore them. And scare 'm. Bad.

But I'm already scaring civilians; and disgusting her. She's also too stupid to fear me though, so it's not enough. Not enough to get this project aborted, and my own identity back into safe obscurity.

I need to fuck this up; I need to be that Big Bad Wolf.

**0000**

**Hey dear all, this is meant as the first chapter in a multi-chapter piece. Au, I know.**

**I hope you enjoyed, and do let me know if you do (that means review). Because it makes me and my betas happy to hear from you!**


	2. Chapter 1

**In reaction to reviews: MK (guest)- **Is it Rogan or only have Logan n Marie as leading characters n as friends in the very least? – this is not your typical flowers and box of chocolate romance, obviously. But love and friendship are the main themes.

Special thanks& Credits:

Special thanks to my beta's Jeanniebird and imsuchanut whose close collaboration made this fiction possible.

**Chapter1**

**0000~S~0000**

William Stryker stubbornly ignored the guards and soldiers throwing him displeased frowns as he marched through the entry way and into the elevator to his office on the top floor. Smoke trailed him and flowed past, then started compacting over his head in the now-sealed off close quarters. The elevator shot past floor and floors of now-empty research facilities and cages, but Stryker hardly passed that a though by now.

Ridiculous modern non-smoking rules! If they'd thought for one moment he'd hold to them, in his own base… And, Lord protect him, it was still _his_ base.

_Backstabbers. False smiles; lies. He had known what to look for. He had always known where to look for the devil. But even he would fail to see, every once in a while. And when Stryker missed one turncoat; missed a snake-in-the-grass, the cuts they gave him hurt all the more for it._

Power. Stryker had lost a lot this time, had he not? And all of it under his own nose, while he was in the euphoria of total victory. Hubris; God punishes those that give into her. Yes; he had been thoroughly engrossed with Weapon-X, working in close-concert with the renowned Doctor Cornelius, to get the most out of his perfect weapon. His killing machine.

It had been all too perfect; Weapon-X had been complacent, yet deadly. Conditioning progressed slowly -as expected. But progress was progress. On trial missions, the Weapon extinguished mutant-lawless with precision and exquisite skill. Congress had lauded Stryker and the Weapons Program with praise. Future prognoses had been excellent, publicity ecstatically positive. Stryker had even had a backup Weapon in the making, quite unexpectedly, and pleasantly promising.

And then, disaster had struck: and well at the hands of his most trusted advisor: the Judas indeed.

His own secretary.

The bitch, the vixen. A woman, once again instrumental in his down-fall. That'd surely teach him to ever trust a woman in the military again. No matter what modern believes on that were, today. The previous lady he had let anywhere close had also done more damage than good, after all. Women were just not made for this line of work.

No; they were always too soft, too caring. And, of course, like Eve, natural double-crossers.

But Stryker could not cast blame completely on females. He had been irresponsible: too engrossed in his work to realize what was going on; not until it was too late. Far, far too late. William had lived and breathed Weapon-X, in those days, and had put all other work into the incompetent, wicked woman's hands.

And Stryker had never even researched that secretary's past. If he had, he might have found out she had spent her college years with animal and human rights groups. That she had been, perhaps not arrested, but seen in close liaison with the criminals and degenerates that had got themselves a criminal record in the name of 'righteous protests'.

She had set out to change things around the weapons program. And Stryker had happily let her, accepting her arguments to hire regular workers instead of hired day laborers and professional soldiers in the name of budgeting. Stryker never looked twice at the new workers files; never wondered what kind of men she was hiring.

And the Commander had been punished severely for the oversight: in the end, it turned out the woman had hired all those college-time friends and acquaintances, convincing them to their cause that here, at the scene, they could do more for abused mutants and animals alike than anywhere else. By the time Stryker realized what had happened, power had been taken from his hands and placed firmly with a union of hippies. And how had he been known to expect such a thing? Really, idealist infiltrating the very people they meant to be fighting.

It was preposterous.

"_The enemy within, boy." The blond had smiled, or at least barred his teeth at young William. Voice a monotone purr, like a cat lolling a canary to sleep. "That is the dangerous one. Not the one on the other side of that bush, the squint-eyed Charlie kid with the gun. No, the true enemy sleeps with us; eats with us. He laughs at our jokes, shares stories of his childhood. He pretends to be our friend… until the time of ultimate betrayal."_

With a shake of the head, Stryker acknowledged that if he himself had stolen that idea, why would not another do the same to him? They probably considered it poetic justice, these deluded men: Stryker had used mutants against the mutant threat. And now mutants had used the Weapons Program workers against the Weapons Program.

And, of course, betrayal always did come from sides least expected. All the same, the Colonel had been shocked when control over the Weapons program had been wrestled from his hands. His mutants turned free, his animals sheltered. The Government, alerted and bribed by footage putting his organization in a bad light, dropped him like a stone.

It was only thanks to Doctor Cornelius and his quick thinking that they had re-acquired Weapon-X and the now-abandoned half-product that should have been its backup.

And so, Stryker was once again working his way up from the bottomless pit of nothingness, back into the saddle of power. It took months before William even managed to fire that back-stabbing secretary (damn labor laws). Most activists left on their own after the Program's living material made its exodus, but a hard-core group had remained. Also, it seemed that even the military had changed; a certain… animal-first sense had taken hold on his people. Soldiers fresh out of boot-camp seemed to abhor the idea of any brutality against animals. Even the old orders-are-orders mentality seemed near gone. People thought for themselves entirely too much.

But William Stryker would accept this as his penance too, and see it as a trial. A challenge to rise up to. Once more.

He had been making good progress too.

Now, however, he felt the old worry nag at him; that worry had he had ignored the first time he had put all his eggs in the basked he named the Wolverine, and nearly lost it all.

Stryker finally made it to his still-dark office, and he drew the door shut behind him. He left the shutters down to keep the sunlight at bay, and flung himself into his office-chair with a grunt. Tiredly, Stryker's rubbed a hand over his face as he put both feet up on his desk. A sigh, and a tired drag from his cigar.

Yet peace would not come. Damn them—this room was supposed to be _sound-proof_! Still, he could hear the bustle in offices under and around him, annoying him; distracting him. While Stryker needed - thirsted for peace.

The peace and quiet to contemplate this new situation involving the X-men. Sure, on the front, using the crowd's favorite to get back into good graces with the public sounded like a good idea. But it was also dangerous; this cooperation could completely expose him.

Stryker felt sure he could work with it though; if he just got the chance to think—to concentrate and figure a way to cover all the risks. But it was so hard to concentrate, when the guy down stairs kept creaking in his chair…

That, too was part of his penance though. Part of punishment from his own making. Tainted hands, blemished soul - call it what you will, William Stryker would accept this burden as well, if he meant to save the world from the devil's own. What was it Lieutenant Creed had said, that day he had met the brothers? That day, when he had been a raw recruit, afraid for his life and in awe of his new commanders?

"_You might not want to extend that hand so readily, boy." That giant of a man had grinned, bearing too-sharp teeth. "Bad things happen to those'd get too close ta us."_

**0000~L~0000**

So, she'd dead.

Damn bitch has gone and done it. And all on her own. Though I couldn't have engineered a better cock-up if I tried. Remember that poor hostage-girl this so-called X-man was coaxing outta hiding? The poor hostage lady with the big doe-eyes and the fearful expression?

That weren't no hostage. She was one o' them. Jumped right out and pulled a machine gun outta no-where. Splattered us both good with a generous helping o'lead. Then she came up and stood laughing over our bodies.

She was still laughing when I cut her head clean off.

Now this is where I woulda turned an' ran.

It's kind of my thing; Cut and run.

No; I aint no coward. Or I don't think I am. But when there's nothing left on my short-lift of orders, and I'm bleeding—well, that's when it's time to take care of number one. Not that it's usually much of a conscious decision. I just go to auto. Ditch the pain and what not and log off. I dream o' the she-wolf, and we run.

Weird? Well, maybe it is. But the she-wolf is one of the earliest memories I have that I can call my own, and I like her. She came to me in my dreams first, told me to run. And we did; through a forest of make-believe winter land. Call on her pretty much any time I get bored these days, which is a lot. Find myself a secluded spot amongst the shrubbery in my pen, try and go for a sleeping dog's pose and just… meditate? I guess that's what it is.

It comes on its own when I'm in trouble now, and it's pleasant enough. No one found out yet, and as for the running: no one seems to mind. I usually wake up home safe and sound. Anyway, I was set for autopilot and ready to run.

But that terrorist bitch musta gotten lucky; dug a bullet right in between my vertebra or something, because I didn't get two steps before I tripped and went down.

When I opened my eyes, damn X-men bitch was right in front of me. On her back, flopp'ng like a fish outta water, making gurgling noises and staring up at the sky with un-seeing eyes. All she could see now was likely death, swooping down for her. Pathetic- and I'd almost feel sorry for her.

You know; if this whole business wasn't her own fault to begin with. If I even gave a damn. Which I don't. I mean, she'd had a choice, right? Knew this business would get her dead soon enough.

So, the girl is drowning on her own blood, lungs filling and breath failing. Pitiful sight. And that's not even considering the smell of blood and piss and fear. Even when I turn away, the smell stays. And the noise. God-awful rasps o' death, full of terror yet begging for an end to pain.

Did I mention I didn't give a damn?

Glad to be rid of her; the dumb broad. She was too young for this business anyway. Too nosey. Too green and overall too trusting. And hey, look at the bright side. Jake is likely to cry.

D'you know Jake? No? Hate that fucking bastard. One o' my handlers; newest one on the team. Not that they like to call m self that now. Like to go by care-takers. Yeah; I got a few better words for 'm, but no talking means no swearing either.

Jake 's the new guy. Only been with us 'bout two years now. He's not from Green-Peace. Or Mutant Lib, or anything like that. Definitely nothing like the old brawn-for-hire either. Yeah; me and Jake, we don't get along. Thing is, they took him on for me especially. Guy used to work at an animal shelter. Took care of the poor abused puppies and got them back into loving homes. Fucking righteous bastard. Thinks he's some kind of dog whisperer. He also thinks wolves and dogs aren't all that different.

We really, really do na' get along.

Well, anyway; that's my view. Jake, he thinks we're best buddies. Thick as pie; man and best friend.

Guy just doesn't get the hint.

Anyway, Jake's gonna cry when he sees her dead bleeding corpse. 'Cause he's got the biggest crush on this girl you can imagine. Fucking perv. She canna' be more then eighteen. Jake's –what? Twenty-five? Old perv, I tell ya. An' this 'll be payback.

Fer all the times he tried to get me to calm down w' talking in that stupid low-calm voice. For the time I'd managed to clamp down my teeth over his bare throat ( he always gets too close), and I was debating excuses to myself on why it was okay to tear this handler's throat out, and he started singing—singing at the Wolverine! Made me want to cry, that; and not just because o' his terrible, awful singing voice.

For all the times he gone an' deconstruct my over-violent behavior, obsessing that there must—must be a reason.

_No, you stupid fuck, I just like killing and maiming!_

Well, as I said. This is gonna hurt him bad. Hurt quite a few other people too; this Rogue girl is a popular one. She's a pretty one, true. I bet that's why. Bet her death will terminate this stupid program they got running with these X-men.

_So, good! I'm happy she's dead._

Not like I can do anything about it. Even if I got the paramedics in, she's too far gone. I can hear her heart stuttering to a halt. It'll be over in a few more seconds. She'll be well and truly dead; gone. Poor thing's not like me. Got a taste of her mutation when we met, and it aint healing.

Well, not unless she's touching me.

Oh, no!

I'm not going there. Not ever again; not if I have a choice – and for once, I do. Touching that bitch hurts like the devil's got his hands on you, and he's taking out all yer wrongs in just one day. No way. Besides, I'm in the business o' killing, not saving. Like I said, I want her dead.

I _need_ her dead.

I have absolutely no reason the safe the bitch, even if I can. Even if I'd _want_ to.

Ah, fuck this.

I reach out a hand, carefully pull away a stray strand o' her white-streaked hair. Then I press down, and fuck things up more royally then I've ever done before.

**0000~R~0000 **

She had been dying.

Rogue gasped, panted, trying for control of her wild, panicking mind. Images and sound and smells came to her, projected in a way she instinctively associated with a wolf.

_Run, run, run!_

A voice she faintly recognized echoed in the tumult of her taken powers, stronger now. Her feet beat to the calling rhythm. Two feet for her, four feet for the beast. She had to wrestle control from it.

_Don't look, don't think. Just run. _

Luckily, for her, that voice had seemed to want little with her body. Again, Rogue fought, and this time managed to stop herself. The wolf inside her turned, attacked; and as Rogue lost the battle; turned and fled on. In-human thoughts and feelings again assailed her:C_ut lose. Run!_

But this time, thankfully, Rogue managed to still her feet. She stood, panting a moment, and took in her surroundings. A forest. Sounds and smells assaulted her, stronger and more powerful then she had ever felt anything. A squirrel up in a tree, scurrying. A bird, calling for a mate. Insects, buzzing, smells of musk damp wood, animals, flowers… And it was weird, so weird.

_No, you idiot. Run! It's a trap!_

A calming breath, as Rogue recognized the mental thought as not her own. She ignored the she-wolf, its simple mantra that called to run, and tried to make sense of it all.

She was deep in the forest, with such bright colors and sounds and smells, and the last things she remembered was dying. Dying as a dozen bullets had hit her, riddling her body. Her last vision had been of Weapon-X's receding back as he loped forward, and plowed into their assailants, unaware or uncaring of her imminent death. Their last mission together: one to subdue terrorist mutants, hiding out in a hidden facility. But they had been armed, the old-fashioned way.

And she had died. Her eyes unseeing, gasping as she listened to the screams, knowing that the Wolverine would not be stopped by the bullets. Wondering, how she had managed to get shot. It had been over, had it not? Ah, but it seemed she had been wrong. That woman… that woman…

Had shot her, and she had died. How could she be here now?

"_Oh, gawd!" _

Rogue turned, and ran back the way she had come. Energy already replenished, her speed would have exhilarated her, had she not been filled with premonition. Her enlightened senses took her easily back to the compound. The smells of blood and gun-powder so strong she was sure even her normal self would have gagged when she drew close.

And there, as she had known, lay the beast. Exactly on the spot where she had fallen. Had he come back to cut her down too, to make sure nothing was left after his massacre? Or had it been curiosity, or some other, less murderous sense made him touch her? Whatever the reason, he was there, and Rogue felt an unexplainable sadness.

"Oh, gawd. I killed him. I killed Weapon-X."

Another, less selfless thought followed right at the heels of that. _What am I going to tell the Program? _

Rogue could hear them coming, with her enhanced hearing. The two care-takers that had delivered Weapon-X to location. They came crashing through the bushes, voices raised in alarm. They knew something was wrong; and it was all Rogue's fault. What was she going to say..?

The wolf was there again, suggesting with images and smells instead of words. _Say nothing. They haven't seen you yet. Go back, close your eyes and run…_

But then Jake and Sam where there, and it was too late to run. Jake, the young good-looking one, let out a cry of alarm and ran to the wolf-creature's side. Sam, the older one, took one look at his colleague then strode over to Rogue instead. The pair of them stood staring a moment at Jake. The man was beside himself, babbling words of comfort and stroking the dead wolf's black and silver mane.

And, impossibly, Weapon-X stirred.

Rogue nearly laughed. Those bastards were right; there really was nothing that could kill the Wolverine. Not even her touch, it seemed.

"What happened?" Sam asked, steady as always.

It was only then that Rogue realized, fully, the implications of that had happened.

"It saved my life."

Rogue shook her head, confused by the nonsense she was uttering. "Your killer weapon just saved my life."

**Thank you for you time, I hope you've enjoyed! And pls leave a review. Or a heads-up ;)**


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